


Mind Meld

by belovedmuerto



Series: An Experiment in Empathy [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: EiE, Epic Bromance, M/M, empath!John, empath!sex, epic bromance might be edging over into romance, experiment in empathy, just so you know, psychic-by-proxy!Sherlock, rad bromance, sorta - Freeform, this might end up an AU of my own AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock get drunk and shag. Sorta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Meld

**Author's Note:**

> Um, I don't even know, you guys.
> 
> As always, thanks to Castiron for being my beta and my cheering squad. You rock.
> 
> NB: I've gone ahead and added this to the series, mostly for my own ease of navigation. And also because there's apparently a lot more to this than a fluffy little emotionally light fic, as I had originally thought it would be.

“I blame you for this.”

“For what?”

“I... am... drunk.” Sherlock speaks slowly, carefully. He measures his words for maximum impact. Unfortunately, ‘drunk’ comes out sounding, well, drunk, and John only giggles in response.

John holds up the empty wine bottle, then drops it over the side of the bed. He has no idea how they made it to Sherlock’s bed, but he’s glad of it, because a) it’s closer to the bathroom in case he needs to vomit; and b) the idea of having to walk anywhere before he passes out is abhorrent. Or would be, if he could actually pronounce the word ‘abhorrent’ right now. 

“I didn’t drink this bottle of wine by myself, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s name has grown an odd extra syllable. “Or the other two.”

“But I wouldn’t be nearly this drunk if not for how drunk you are.”

The sad thing is, this actually makes perfect sense to John.

“You’re the one who insisted on wine.” As if that explains everything. Which it does. “Consider it payback.”

“For what?”

“For being you.”

Sherlock pouts. Spectacularly. John giggles, reaches over and pokes Sherlock’s extravagantly frowning, pouting bottom lip and giggles some more. Sherlock turns over, huffing in annoyance and presenting John with his back.

“Poor, pouty Sherlock,” John teases, following him over and curling against Sherlock’s back. John is radiating amusement and affection like a beacon. Sherlock grumbles and crosses his arms awkwardly, but doesn’t move away from John, because it feels warm and happy there against him. 

“Big spoon!” John crows, before settling into silence. Silence is nice. This fuzzy, happy feeling is nice. Everything is nice right at this very second. Passing out sounds nice. 

He’s just turning to serious contemplation of passing out when Sherlock speaks again. 

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“How many people have you had sex with?”

Well, that wakes him up. John leans back a bit and stares at Sherlock’s back, as if it could possibly hold the answers to why the hell this conversation started. Then he stares for another minute, trying to process the sense of... not curiosity, exactly, but... spirit of inquiry? It doesn’t quite compute. There are no answers written on Sherlock’s back, no hints in the set of his shoulders or the curve of his neck.

“Why?” John settles for simply asking, one long drawn out syllable that sounds more drunk than anything he’s said so far that night, instead of relying on their empathic link. The wine has left everything a bit too muddled in John’s head; he can’t quite tell the difference right now, between his own emotions and Sherlock’s. That’s something he’ll have to mull when he’s sober. If he remembers. He almost hopes he doesn’t, because it seems like it means something, something that he isn’t sure he wants to consider.

“I’m given to understand that this is something friends discuss when they’re drunk. Sexual exploits. Yes?” Sherlock lifts one shoulder in a shrug, but he’s tensed up a bit as well, betraying the nonchalance of the gesture for the lie it is.

“Oh, Christ.” John rolls onto his back and rubs his hands over his face. “You’re serious?”

“Of course I am.” Sherlock turns over and looks at him. He lifts an eyebrow, and that shoulder again.

John shuts his eyes and drapes his arm across them. It’s hard to process through the haze of wine, but Sherlock does seem to be curious, as well as something else. Almost nervous.

“You’re not propositioning me, are you?”

“No.”

“Ok. And do you really care how many people I’ve slept with? Or are you actually asking me something else?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Which is answer enough.

John thinks. “How many people have you had sex with?” he asks, after a moment. Not that he really cares, himself. 

“Two,” Sherlock answers promptly.

John nods in acknowledgement. He’s not particularly surprised. “And you didn’t particularly enjoy it either time, did you?”

“Not really. Sex is strange. And messy.”

John grins, because he’s not wrong. “It is at that. I’ve had sex with six people. Four women and two men, because I know you’re going to ask.”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. Then, “Your reputation--”

“Just because Bill Murray says things does not make them true, Sherlock.”

“Apparently not.” But Sherlock softens the dryness of his reply with a chuckle.

John rolls his eyes. “I’m an empath, Sherlock. I’m good at making people feel good, with or without sex. People talk, I end up with a reputation. Sex is... difficult for me. I like it, quite a bit, but it’s hard to get close to another person that way, without things getting in the way. Do you see?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, and John reaches out and grabs Sherlock’s hand, bombarding him briefly with images, emotions. Sherlock gasps and jerks his hand away. He should be used to it, considering how often they use their connection as a means of communication, of comfort, but rarely does John deliberately flood him. Ever since that first time, when he’d grabbed John in a state of panic and fear in their kitchen and had been overwhelmed with John’s whole life--and John with his--it’s been more controlled, less invasive.

“See what I mean?” John adds. 

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. Then, “I’m sorry, John.”

“Don’t be. I’m not. I’ve been saved from having sex with some awful people by it, actually. Imagine snogging a girl and finding out she’s something of a compulsive liar.” He pauses, then adds, “She was a good kisser, though.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose delicately, and John laughs. For good measure, he adds, “I’m still not interested in having sex with you, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“OK. I just wanted to make that clear.”

“You needn’t have bothered, John. I can tell.”

“Yeah, and I love you too, git.”

Sherlock makes an affirmative noise.

“Actually,” John murmurs, almost to himself. He doesn’t say anything else, though, until Sherlock prompts him.

“Actually what, John? Don’t be imprecise.”

John doesn’t answer, the thought seems to have left his mind, and he is radiating contentment now; Sherlock would be able to feel it even without the empathic link. It draws him in like flame. He gathers that, his own sense of necessity, of care, all the things he has trouble articulating, even with their bond, and he nudges, keeps nudging until it’s all been nudged from his mind into John’s. Drifting towards sleep, sliding inexorably towards unconsciousness thanks to the wine and the warmth of being curled up in bed with Sherlock, John murmurs something unintelligible, but definitely pleased. Sherlock can feel his pleasure like a shiver up his own spine. 

What Sherlock gets back feels like a caress, like safety and warmth, sending an actual shiver through him, filling him with a burst of pleasure. His arms tighten momentarily around John in reaction, before he forces himself to relax. He takes a deep breath. John murmurs again, his name, a vague, sleepy query.

“Shh,” Sherlock reassures. He pushes back; need.

John makes pleased sounds; love.

Sherlock presses his lips to the nape of John’s neck, strengthening the connection between them. It’s always strongest with skin to skin contact.

Want. He lets it filter through, that want that he’s never been able to quantify, because he knows it’s not want like the way other people want. But it’s there, that want, that need, and he just wants John to understand.

“ _Oh_ ,” John murmurs.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, against his neck, tightening his arms again.

John turns into him, within the circle of his arms, and wraps his arms tight around Sherlock, tangles their legs together, presses forehead against forehead, and shuts his eyes; _yes_.

Things go hazy after that, for an interminable amount of time, as they pour pleasure back and forth between the two of them, building slowly, filling them both up, tripping switches and soft gasps, quiet sighs and low hums that seem to echo in their heads. 

Until eventually, everything goes white and spangled around the edges, all at once, unexpected, bursts of color flare like starbursts. He might gasp John’s name; he’s fairly certain he hears John choke on his.

\----

Sherlock wakes up alone. Alone and vaguely... unsettled. It takes him a few moments to process that it isn’t his unease that he feels but John’s, and that John is trying to keep it from him as best he can (which is to say, not very well, and unlikely to be any better even if they weren’t emotionally twined the way they are). After... whatever it was, last night when they were drunk, everything feels closer. John feels closer, for all that he isn’t in the room. Sherlock does not find this disagreeable.

Not even a little bit.

What he does find disagreeable, on the other hand, is John’s absence. That John isn’t within touching distance. It’s awful. So he gets out of bed, pulls on his dressing gown (the blue one), and pads out to the lounge, yawning and stretching as he goes.

John is stood by one of the windows, staring down at the street below. He’s wearing Sherlock’s plaid dressing gown, and instead of being put out like he feels he probably should--Sherlock doesn’t really do sharing--Sherlock finds that a comfort. A reassurance. It’s shocking how much he needs reassurance of John. Of his presence, of his regard, that he’s not going anywhere.

Sherlock stands watching John for a few long moments. Looking for... what? Regret? Panic? Disgust? He doesn’t know if there’s a proper word for what had passed between them in the night (sex? Does it count as such if no bodily fluids were exchanged? If they hadn’t even kissed? He doesn’t have much experience of sex, but he has extrapolated that it usually involves kissing), but he knows that he enjoyed it--a lot--and that he wants John to feel... not like this. Not worried. Not afraid. 

Happy. Comfortable. He wants John to feel those things.

John turns his head to look across the room at Sherlock, and a moment of panic flares between them, until John tamps it down ruthlessly. Sherlock scowls. He crosses the room in a few long strides, fetching up against John, who very nearly cowers, and glaring down at him.

“Why are you feeling these things?” he demands.

John blushes, looks away again. He’s not thinking, Sherlock can tell he’s not, that his head is a jumble of guilt and worry and fear--fear of what? of Sherlock?

“Was it--?” he starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish. Something awful occurs to him: they’d both been inebriated, but Sherlock hadn’t asked for permission.

“Did I--?” That fear of John’s multiplies in his own head.

“No!” John’s eyes go wide, disbelieving. “No. God, no.”

“Then what? Why? I don’t understand, John.”

“It’s just...” John looks away again. “You don’t like sex.”

“We didn’t have sex.” Sherlock is reasonably certain of this. He’s never heard of anyone having sex only with emotions and the mind. That’s not what ‘mind-fucking’ actually means, is it? Has Sherlock been missing something all these years?

“Yes we did.” John sighs. 

He sounds so sad, as if everything is ruined. And, Sherlock supposes, this does in some way change the nature of their relationship. Something unspoken, yet mostly acknowledged that’s been there almost since the beginning, that underlying connection between the two of them, that attachment, that link. But if he can give _this_ to John, these mental orgasms, then John need not pine for physicality in ways Sherlock cannot provide. John won’t get frustrated with him, with what he lacks, with how poor a friend he truly is, and leave.

“I didn’t know that would happen, John.”

“No, neither did I.”

“It was... good, was it not?”

“Oh, definitely good. Definitely.” John is blushing again. The tips of his ears are pink. It’s endearing. And worrying.

“Then I fail to see the issue.”

“I’m not sure I can explain it, Sherlock!”

In his frustration, Sherlock steps not back, but closer, looking over John, grabbing his arm. The jolt John sends through him burns up his spine and straight into the pleasure centers of his brain. He’s not sure, but he might moan, wanton. John jerks out of his grasp before Sherlock can return that pleasure to him.

When Sherlock opens his eyes--he’d closed them?--John is staring at him, surprised and awed.

“Why are you surprised, John?”

“You don’t like sex,” John replies, whispers, perplexed.

“Why are you so confused?” Sherlock steps closer again.

“You don’t like sex,” John says again. Is he trying to convince himself or Sherlock?

“This is better than sex, John,” Sherlock answers, reasonable. He has recovered his faculties from a few moments before. Now he understands. Understands John’s worry, his fear. He smiles. “All the neuro-chemicals, none of the mess.”

John snorts with laughter, grins. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

“Of course not; I’m rarely wrong, John.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” John relaxes visibly, and Sherlock allows himself to relax as well. 

“Will it always be like this now, do you think?” Sherlock asks, reaching out to clasp his hand around John’s neck, making them both shiver. “Will every shared emotion feel this way now?”

John shrugs. “Dunno. I’m as new to this as you are, Sherlock.”

“Not that I mind, I assure you. Only it might get a bit distracting at crime scenes.”

John laughs again. “OK, all right. Let me have some breakfast before we start experimenting, please.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock bounds out of the room to gather equipment, and John goes into the kitchen to do them a proper fry-up.

**Author's Note:**

> So. Yeah. I've been pondering writing this for months. Months, literally. And I went back and forth, because as much as I love the shippy stories, I liked my epic bromance epic and bromancey and sorta ambiguously weirdly romantic but without any sex. And then John was all like, yeah, but... And this popped into my head. Or else Castiron said something about it and THEN it popped into my head. 
> 
> Either way. Here it is. I reserve the right as author to later declare this to be an AU of my own AU and pretend it never happened. As does John. Sherlock will be rather put out by that, though.
> 
> Um, if you were dead set against this particular version of John and Sherlock ever having orgasms together, then I apologize. But not really, as it's my damn sandbox and I don't have to share if I don't want to. 
> 
> And now I'm going back to working on the angst-fest that unumpentium prompted me to write.


End file.
